


Uncomfortable Truths

by InterNutter



Series: When Irish Eyes Are Smiling [3]
Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: F/M, Peter/Iris, Racism, Slut-Shaming, Some slurs, baby robots, some swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter





	Uncomfortable Truths

Disclaimer: The Bennets own SPG. I own this fic and anything resembling an original character. Please do not claim this fic as your own.

Uncomfortable Truths

InterNutter

  Three metal children sat awkwardly in the library. One was nervously crocheting squares out of leftover bits of yarn. And it was worrying to him that the more leftover bits of yarn that he used, the more leftover bits of yarn he acquired. There would come a time, he was becoming certain, when his entire basket would be full of leftover bits of yarn. Too long to throw away, and too short to do anything meaningful with.  
  Which left him with a worrying loop. To make something meaningful required more yarn than his basket could hold. To empty the basket required making something out of the yarn within. To make something created more scraps to make something with.  
  "[Query,]" he chirped. "[Does the basket generate scraps? Or does the working make them more than they were?]"  
  Rabbit peered into the basket. "[I reckon they spontaneously manna-fest. Y' got yourself a manna festival goin' on in there.]"  
  "[Does yarn make more yarn?]" puzzled Three. "[From where?]"  
  "[Dummins, it just makes itself. It manna-fests. Like in that book o' weird stories. The bibble.]"  
  "[I'm pretty sure that's not how you pronounce that word, Rabbit,]" warbled The Spine.  
  "[Sure that's how I pronounce it. Listen. Bibble, bibble, bibble, bibble...]"  
  "[That is a fun word,]" smiled Three. "[Lots of bad stories, though.]"  
  "[Ma and Pappy are taking too long,]" whined Rabbit.  
  "[They said leave them alone for when they do moaning-naked-knot,]" informed The Spine. "[Pappy and Miss Iris get upset when we check on them.]"  
  "[I don't get it,]" complained Three. "[Hugs is nice. Lip-lip is nice. Why is it so special to do both with clothes off?]"  
  "[We don't wear clothes all'a time,]" added Rabbit.  
  "[I've been meaning to ask about that, too...]" murmured The Spine.  
  Someone cleared their throat. Miss Iris. Ma. "Good morning, boys."  
  "Good morning, ma'am. Sir," he turned the gesture for wiping his mouth into a wave. He didn't need the rag, any more. Pappy and Miss Iris had found the leak and fixed it properly.  
  "Good morning!" Rabbit enthused.  
  "Good afternoon," said Three.  
  Rabbit giggled.  
  Behind Miss Iris, Pappy looked like he didn't want to be in this room. He was turning violet about his face. But Miss Iris had him by his hand and dragged him in anyway.  
  The Spine redoubled his crocheting. "Were we bad?" he asked.  
  "No. No. It's not you. I. Um. There's just--" he turned to Miss Iris. "Must I? Before the news?"  
  "No distractions," said Miss Iris. She bought him all the way in and sat him in his favourite chair. Then she retreated to the doorway and leaned on the edge of it.  
  
  Peter looked down at his three metal sons. Though their faces were largely immobile, they still managed to convey worry, anxiety, and fear.  
  He could explain the workings of a proposed automaton to a crowd of interested scientists, but he found himself unable to explain basic human biology in a clear and logical manner.  
  For the first time in his life, he had stage fright.  
  "Well... uhm. You see. Uh. Miss Iris and I... we... er. We like each other very much. And -uh- well... when two... individuals... uhm..." Their stares were relentless.  
  "I thought lip-lip was a liking thing," said The Spine.  
  "We like it when you do lip-lip with Ma," added Three.  
  "You both turn pretty colours," supplied Rabbit.  
  "Why can't we do that?" they said in unison.  
  "Well. Uhm. Humans have... blood vessels. And -uh- when... certain things happen... er. The blood rushes to our faces. It's called 'blushing'."  
  "Blushing," they said in unison.  
  "Now the -uh- lip-lip, you called it?"  
  "Yeah," grinned Three. "When you and Ma go like--" Three grabbed his nearest sibling -Rabbit- and both gave a shockingly accurate performance of what kissing looked like. Replete with pleased murmurings. "I don't get it but it looks like fun!"  
  "Yah, why'd we get no lips, Pappy?"  
  "...that's not the right kind of kissing for siblings, boys..." he squeaked.  
  Miss Iris was not helping, stifling giggles behind her hands.  
  He cleared his throat. "It's true, that lip-lip -uh- kissing... is a way that people show affection for each other. To show others how we like them. STOP!" He preempted a bout of more frighteningly accurate portrayals just in time. "Kisses are *coded*, boys. Some are more intense than others. Some... mean more... than others."  
  "Oooohhhhhh..." chorused the automatons.  
  "Show us?"  
  "Yeh! Show us with Ma!"  
  "Showusshowusshowus!" Three bounced in place.  
  Peter sighed and looked pleadingly over to dear Miss Iris, only to find her in silent hysterics. "I don't think Miss Iris is inclined to be helpful at the moment."  
  SNORT. Giggle giggle giggle giggle...  
  "...and now I'm certain," he sighed. He pointed to his own face. "The closer the kiss goes to someone else's mouth, the deeper the affection felt for that person is. It's why you may see parents kissing their children anywhere from the cheeks to the top of the brow."  
  Each automaton pointed to a spot on their face-plates. That still bore the faint traces of Miss Iris' lip rouge.  
  "Yes, we'll clean those off, later. And it's also why you would see lovers -uh- going below the cheekbones."  
  Warble twitter warble tweet chirp...  
  And then each mechanical brother clinked their mouth against the others' cheek-plates.  
  "Yes. That's proper. Much better."  
  And then they got up and collided their mouths against *his* cheekbones. They meant well, but he was certain too much automaton affection could be damaging. "Thank you. Yes. A little gentler, eh? You boys have sharp corners."  
  They un-swarmed from him and promptly swarmed Miss Iris.  
  "Do be careful!"  
  Thankfully, she giggled as each machine lifted her up to hug and kiss her. But that didn't stop him from fretting.  
  He fretted all the way over to her and helped her down. Checked to be certain she was unharmed. Then dear Miss Iris insisted they get back to the chair and he answer all the boys' questions about the previous night.  
  "Ohyeah," said Rabbit. "What about the moanin'-naked-knot?"  
  "...what?" said Peter.  
  "Conjugal relations," supplied dear Iris, absently untangling yarn from Three, because he'd collided with The Spine's knitting basket on the way back.  
  "Oh. Yes. Ahem. Well. Uh. It's a perfectly normal thing. When two... individuals love each other beyond reason. Erm. For -uh- those two to... uhm... enjoy... conjugal relations." He felt it difficult to speak an cleared his throat. "It's a very -uhm- private practice and... we... don't like to talk about it."  
  Warble chirp twitter coo.  
  The Spine raised a hand.  
  "Yes, son?"  
  "Why've you both got extra parts, sir?"  
  Rabbit bounced. "Yeah. What're they for?"  
  "Is there snacks inside?" asked Three hopefully.  
  "No, dear," said Iris. "Just the regular human insides. And it's not nice to try to take apart people to find out. We don't repair as easily as you do."  
  "Yahbut... what're they *for*?"  
  "Are we incomplete?"  
  "Howcome you wear clothes all'a time and we can go naked at home?"  
  Peter blushed. "You aren't incomplete. I just... didn't think you'd find those parts... necessary."  
  "Why?"  
  
  It had taken two hours, with a break for food and water and oil. The poor automatons were still as confused as when they started.  
  Rabbit kept wanting 'squishy bits just like Ma'.  
  And Peter. Poor, darling Peter... had fallen to mumbling and saying 'um' far too many times and repeating the phrase 'private touching' when he could be heard at all.  
  The Spine kept offering poor Peter his knitting so Peter could cool down.  
  Iris got control of her giggles at last and stepped in. "Humans occasionally find the need to make more humans," she began. "That's why we have extra parts. And we also find the act of conjugal relations to be very enjoyable - if also embarrassing. We don't like to be seen being vulnerable. Do you understand?"  
  Nod nod nod.  
  "Conjugal relations are seen as the ultimate act of love. The deepest and most sincerest of communal touching. We allow ourselves to be that vulnerable with someone else."  
  "We don't got that," objected Rabbit.  
  "Well, no. You're all siblings. You were made by the same person. And it is very wrong for siblings to experience conjugal relations."  
  "*Oooohhhhh*..."  
  "I get it!"  
  "Touch is coded too, yes?"  
  "Exactly right, my dears," she smiled and clapped. "And as it happens, you three are the only automatons like you in the world."  
  "We're... alone?"  
  "No happy fun time and naked-moaning-knot?"  
  "You're all far too young!" Poor Peter flustered. "At least wait until you're twenty-one! Goodness!"  
  "...sounds like fun," protested Three.  
  "We like fun," added Rabbit.  
  "I'll wait, sir," murmured The Spine.  
  Iris felt shamed to disappoint them, but they had a lot of growing up to do. "It's a good idea to wait, boys. Wait until you fall in love. Wait until you know you even want to *be* that vulnerable with someone. I know you're made of metal, but love gone wrong can... break a person."  
  Gasps.  
  "People *break*?"  
  "On the inside, yes. It's the sort of hurt you really can't quantify." And before she set foot in San Diego, she'd have never have *thought* a word like 'quantify'. Walter Manor had changed her in more ways than one. "And, sadly, sometimes it makes people very ill." She waited for the chirping to die down again, "Which is another good reason to wait until you're older. You'll learn how to act with people, and not break any hearts."  
  Rabbit held up a cautious and shuddering hand. "When Other-Mommy had the bad-word? And they put her in that box?"  
  "When she died. Yes?"  
  "That broke Pappy's heart... didn't it?"  
  Iris could see the worry in their metal faces. The fear. _Is our Pappy going to die, too?_  
  "Just a couple of cracks," he reassured. "I'll heal, I promise."  
  "Heal?" echoed Three.  
  "How humans get repairs," she said. "We repair ourselves. It takes longer and it doesn't always come out right, but we do repair when we can, and get on with our lives. When we can."  
  "So you try to stay out of the box that goes underground," clarified The Spine.  
  "Yes." Death and all it's inherent woes could wait for another day.  
  They warbled and twittered amongst themselves, but there was a lot more nodding. A great deal of increased confidence.  
  Iris nodded. "Now, my dear boys. I'm very much afraid that we received some disturbing news, this morning. Your Pappy and I decided to wait until we had your previous concerns cleared away."  
  "Boys... you remember the bad man with the gun?"  
  "Bad green man," said The Spine. "I smashed the gun."  
  "He shot me," said Three. "He wanted to shoot you, Pappy."  
  "I don't like him," said Rabbit.  
  "Well, he escaped some time back and... he's making another pest of himself in Egypt. He's made some elephant automatons... amongst... other... things... and my good friend Babclock has asked me if I could help." Sigh. "So I'm asking you if you can help, too."  
  "Help, how?"  
  Iris watched their poor faces fall as dear Peter explained war. Sometimes, he said, it was necessary to use violence in order to stop violence. To protect life, one had to stop its enemy. By any means necessary.  
  "Smash things?" The Spine sounded horrified. "On purpose?"  
  "More than smashing things. You boys... if you decide to help... you're going to be instrumental in saving lives."  
  "How can we save lives by breakin' stuff?" asked Rabbit.  
  "Will we have to break people?" quavered Three.  
  And in slow, painful words... it all came out.  
  Becile had gone insane. That much was certain. The power of green matter could not only power machines, but also grotesquely alter animate flesh, bonding them to the machines that were similarly powered. At the last report, Becile was last seen raving about the power to reanimate the dead.  
  And, having seen what green matter had done to deceased lab rats... that was not going to be a good thing.  
  It would be a horror no mind could legitimately imagine.  
  They were barely a year old. Babies. And they had the capability to do the worst of adult things.  
  And yet, they were also far more resilient than any human soldier.  
  Iris took a deep breath and held it, lest she cry out everything that was wrong about this insane venture. Everything that was wrong about sending machines with the minds of children up against the scientific abominations of a madman.  
  She only dared breathe through her fingers when darkness threatened to claim her. Watching and waiting for three children to make the most adult decision of their lives. He shouldn't have made them decide. And yet - forcing them to abide by his decision in this... would have been infinitely worse.  
  Their bird-speak did not sound like their usual bickering. Nor was it worried. Neither was it the cheerful, loud twittering chittering of their more expansive conversations.  
  This was a serious debate.  
  Iris hadn't believed they were capable of such a thing, until this moment.  
  The chirps died down, and they spoke, one by one.  
  "We help Pappy," said Rabbit.  
  "We help Pappy," said The Spine.  
  "We help Pappy," said Three.  
  And that was it. The end of their collective childhoods.  
  
  There was, of course, a whirlwind of paperwork. Lawyers and meetings with grim-faced men and plans and, because they agreed to help, automatons constantly underfoot.  
  Poor Peter had no time to create a special housing for his newest automaton, amidst the legal troubles involved in changing the ownership of shares, hiring and firing people based on their ability to work with them both, re-tooling the Mechanicals factory, and booking lecture theatres for the Walter Workers who were ready to learn. And, because they had to pay for the tons of metal necessary, and the boat to carry the resultant throng of automatons across the Atlantic... for paying audiences to watch and gawk as well.  
  It took a surprisingly short three weeks to get it all lined up.  
  And a dose of smelling-salts for herself when Iris discovered that she would be assisting in the lectures.  
  "Talking to all those people? Me?" she repeated. "All those learned men..."  
  "And women. I hear Walter Mechanicals does not discriminate."  
  Which only made the Vapours return.  
  It was darling Peter's kiss, rather than the salts, that bought her fully back to reality. "My dear Miss Iris," he murmured, holding her hands firm in his and kneeling on the floor in front of her. "You have faced down learned gentlemen and told them exactly where they could get off. Of all my staff, *you* are the most learned in the ways of my automatons. The most capable at explaining and interpreting their habits... You even picked up some of their unique language! And best of all, most important of all..." his voice dropped to a whisper, "they *obey* you."  
  _Only because they love me like I love them,_ she couldn't help thinking.  
  Peter still knelt. Looking for all the world like he was going to pull a diamond ring out of his pocket and present it to her while begging her to stay by him forever.  
  Alas. Only in her dreams.  
  "This newest mad venture of mine would be both incomplete and a disaster without your quick wit and able assistance. Say yes, dear Iris. Come be a teacher!"  
  If he had said, 'come be my bride,' she would have fallen on top of him in shrieking glee. As it was, however, her heart only cracked a little and one illogical tear escaped her eyes. "I cannot promise that I won't mumble. Or say 'um' too many times. And I have no knowing of all the scientific lexicon. And I will tend to speak very plainly indeed..."  
  "I expect nothing less. I have some inventions that may assist us both with the mumbling at the least."  
  
  Did you hear?  
  Colonel Walter is turning them into instruments of war!  
  Did you hear?  
  That madman Becile is tearing up the whole of Egypt.  
  Did you hear?  
  Walter's planning to lecture anyone willing to learn on how to make an autonomous automaton!  
  And he's getting That Woman involved.  
  The nerve!  
  Did you hear?  
  She forged her papers just to get hired!  
  The dirty, deceitful Paddy...  
  Did you hear?  
  He doesn't give a raw fig!  
  How could he?  
  He's lost almost all standing amongst gentlemen of privilege.  
  Did you hear?  
  He's made That Woman one of the nouveau riche.  
  All because she threw herself at him, no doubt.  
  Social climbing Paddy harlot...  
  Did you hear?  
  The lectures he's holding are going to be open for everyone. Man, woman and child!  
  Yes, even the Nigra!  
  In the same room as decent folk!  
  Did you hear?  
  Those automatons will be speaking, too.  
  And showing off their clockwork insides to everyone with a Quarter!  
  Did you hear?  
  They're even charging the gentry, those ruthless money-grubbers...  
  But Walter Mechanicals employees get in free!  
  All of those women who are no better than they aught to be...  
  Did you hear?  
  Are you going?  
  Did you hear?  
  
  It was a very busy month. Followed by another very busy month. First, came the month of lectures. Every day, up at dawn. Polishing the automatons and repairing the microphonic amplifiers. Every day, being cleaned and pressed and presentable. At least the automatons didn't need clothing, for the presentations.  
  Dear Peter showed off two sets of working insides with the twins, and expounded about his hopes of recreating a vortex similar to the one currently residing in the chest of Three. Then he would explain, either with pieces of his new 'war automaton' modelled heavily on the potbelly stove he'd appropriated for a chassis, or with the parts to the new, generic automatons. The latter, freshly pressed out of Walter Metal's ironmongery machines.  
  Iris was the one to explain the existing automatons' musical language, and demonstrate the phrases she found useful. As well as explaining that the automatons had adopted her as a mother figure, and therefore explaining the occasional 'Ma' that slipped their mechanical tongues.  
  When the fourth official Walter family automaton was almost ready, there was a special class for the Matter Maestros (and a gawking, paying audience expecting an explosion) to observe the procedure.  
  A procedure refined and defined by an ominous door and vitally necessary containment zone in the outer reaches of the Manor grounds. Timed photographic devices pushed through the dread, purple portal by way of re-enforced sticks showed a bizarre land and -worryingly- an increasing crowd of curious inhabitants.  
  So far, none of them had ventured into reality. Yet.  
  "This," said dear Peter, showing it around, "is an altered blue matter core. I have placed around it in strategic positions, small detonatable charges of unstable green matter. After studying the vortex inside Unit Three--" he referred to them all by their order of manufacture in the lectures. Iris didn't like it, since two of them had names, but science was at the fore in this crowded hall.  
  And she couldn't help but notice Mister Ignatius Reed in the cheaper seats with his son, Andrew. Pointing out all the interesting things and whispering.  
  Young Andrew watched with wide and fascinated eyes. Barely blinking.  
  "As it so happens, a portal cannot be stable without some variety of metallic frame. The... other experiments that provided empirical data on this matter are why I'm getting more trees shipped in to the manor grounds."  
  The audience laughed, but Iris still fretted over each and every explosion. Every last one had meant plasters for Peter and fussing over her darling Peter and calming upset automatons and soothing the staff and holding poor Bobby's hand until the Boy went to sleep at night.  
  Still, the last experiment had worked, and that meant that this, smaller experiment had the go-ahead.  
  Spine held the cannon, connected by cables to the rest of unofficially-unit-four's inner workings, as darling Peter connected all the cables in turn. Checked and triple-checked the couplings and the brass shielding. Brass, they had found, was essential to preventing any leaks.  
  "Now," announced Peter. "This shouldn't explode *too* hard."  
  The paying audience laughed. The Matter Maestros of the inner circle - most of them Matter Mistresses - readied themselves to duck and cover under their desks.  
  Iris put one hand on the handle of the Emergency Bag and readied herself to run, should the need arise.  
  Rabbit and Three both rather subtly poised to save their Pappy from impending disaster.  
  Darling Peter threw the switches.  
  Click. Clunk. Clack...  
  Whirrrrrr...  
  The new blue core sprang into life.  
  SNAKT! Went the last switch.  
  The little charges went off like Chinese fireworks. Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop...  
  And the automaton on the slab... moved. Looking around itself in wonderment.  
  "Baby brother?" said Three.  
  Unit Four found the source of the sound. Stared and blinked at everything around him.  
  This one had to be a 'he'. For some reason, dear Peter had added an amusing moustache to its rounded head. All the better for making the poor thing look less like a potbellied stove on legs, she supposed.  
  Iris breathed out and, very discretely, wiped her eyes free of terrified tears, and allowed herself to relax anew in her seat.  
  Unit Four had his slab tilted more-or-less upright, and the audience Oohed and Ahed at the miraculous sight of a vortex inside the 'chest' of the automaton. Which, with no other input, cooed in response to the audience cooing.  
  At a nod, The Spine gently pushed the cannon inside the vortex. It vanished without a trace.  
  "This automaton has yet to be loaded with the requisite knowledge to understand speech," said Peter. "Right now, he's a mimic. Right, Unit Four?"  
  "Right U-nit four," echoed the automaton.  
  "Now, to my left is the automaton knowledge database. It rather saves time teaching a machine how to talk. I have collated and refined the necessary dictionaries, as well as compiling the necessary database. This will be an interesting experiment. As you know, my three existing automatons were programmed with the knowledge of music. They've since used that to communicate. This automaton will have no such knowledge."  
  Quiet chirping amongst the three brothers. They sounded worried.  
  "This is a robot made for war. It will have no need of music."  
  Iris assisted in attaching the cables to Four's Babbage engine, and used it as an opportunity to talk to the boys. "It's all right," she whispered. "Pappy just wants to see what happens next. I'm sure he'll fix everything in the end."  
  The Babbage-feeding was not very spectacular, as far as the paying audience was concerned. The robot on the slab twitched and made odd sounds. Occasional bursts of random words spilled out. Nothing that made sense.  
  Dear Peter filled the time with a question-and-answer session while Iris monitored the dials and made certain this new automaton weathered the transfer all right.  
  None had failed, yet... but there was a first time for everything.  
  The Spine came to hold her hand. Whispered, "I'm not sure any more, Miss Iris."  
  "You gave your word, my dear. It's not a good thing to back out of that."  
  The Spine fell silent, but he didn't let go of her hand, either. Iris did her best to at least seem calm. It was either send in fighting automatons, or risk the lives of millions. And worse, since Becile could perform necromantic horrors with the wounded and dying, sending people of flesh would just send him more potential troops.  
  It was send the automatons... or lose.  
  Iris had only met Becile once, and despite the stories of their once-was friendship, she never wanted to be near him again. He was crazed, dangerous and had access to a power that was the next-best thing to demonic. He would have easily killed darling peter and wrecked the automatons, and cast her off as, at the very least, waste.  
  He was the sort of man who needed stopping.  
  Because he could not, would not, stop himself.  
  The dials behaved as normal. Not a thing required a remedy. Four was now a functional automaton. For all the good or ill that that implied.  
  Three approached first. Smiling for his new brother.  
  Chirr whitt?  
  No reaction. Iris moved so she could see Four's face. There wasn't much of a face, but she could see confusion in Four's eyes.  
  The Spine tried next, still clinging to her hand. Warble warble chirp?  
  Then Rabbit. Chitter warble twitter chirp chirp tweet?  
  Four turned to dear Peter. "Self not un-der-stand. Self in er-ror?"  
  "He don't speak Robutt?" boggled Rabbit.  
  The audience giggled.  
  Iris stifled her frowns. In her view, their laughter was a little on the cruel side. They didn't understand. Though she was proud to note that none of the Matter Maestros present even cracked a smirk.  
  "We're brothers," said Rabbit. "I'm Rabbit, the big one over by th' nice lady is The Spine, and this is Three. He don't have a name yet."  
  "That makes you Four," said Three. "You're our brother, too."  
  "And that's Pappy," Rabbit pointed at dear Peter.  
  The amusing moustache twitched into a happier pose. "Pap-py."  
  Dear Peter only rolled his eyes. "Evidently, there are some automaton connections that can't be prevented..."  
  More laughter from the peanut gallery.  
  Well, he did make automatons who learned.  
  
  They oversaw the factory for a week. Loading up the steamer with generic automatons. Installing weapons in the boys. Making certain they knew how to use them.  
  And in all that time, there was no time for even the slightest of comforts between herself and dear Peter. They were just too busy. Every waking hour was filled with flurried activity and every night full of dreamless exhaustion.  
  And then, like a nightmare half-finished, it was time for him to go.  
  The other automatons, made by many, had no attachment to their inventor or his... assistant. They waited, packed in the hold in stasis like cordwood. Emotionless. Chilling. Only the boys lined the railing of the steamer and watched with worried, blue eyes as dear Peter lingered with her on the dock.  
  As others around her and he murmured to themselves. Just loud enough to be heard.  
  Iris had a sensitive ear to certain words. And each one added colour to her cheeks.  
  "You have the ownership of my businesses should... the unthinkable happen," he managed.  
  Iris didn't want to think of it. "Do you have enough, or shall I finance another boat?"  
  "No. No. There's enough weapons in that boat to make quick work of anything Becile can throw at us. Just... look after things. I'll send you a telegram if it looks like we need more."  
  She nodded anxiously, hands clasped in front of her. She didn't trust herself to let go if she dared hold him in any way. "Do try to come home in one piece. And... and bring the boys back in one piece, too?"  
  He smiled, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Hurting a little in his eyes. "As you command, madame."  
  And then he turned, and climbed the gangplank, and embraced his four boys as the steamer cast off for distant Africa.  
  Without a kiss.  
  Without a hug.  
  Without a goodbye.  
  She waved and smiled for all five of them, even though she was certain she was shattering inside. Put on a brave face, even though she wanted to die.  
  She hadn't dared tell him that she suspected that she was pregnant.  
  Perhaps it was the stresses of these past months making her cycle non-existent. Perhaps it was fear that some would suspect she was trying to trap him. Perhaps it was the underlying, abject terror that their entanglements of that one, glorious evening and morning was some variety of fancy on her part and loss of control on his.  
  So she convinced herself that it was far too soon and kept her nausea to herself. And told everyone that she must have picked up a harmless stomach-bug. That nervous energy had made her ill. That she would be better, soon enough.  
  Cookie remained employed, because Iris could not bear to look at raw meat, and became faint at the smell of beets or peeled potatoes. And Cookie looked her over with a judging eye, but said nothing.  
  Iris swore the woman had vision that could pierce walls.  
  And she counted herself lucky that she also had a very inert tongue.  
  Iris waited on the dock until she could no longer pick out darling Peter or the boys, and turned away for the coach. One-armed Margaret, Red Regret, as she styled herself, waited with the coach on the streets. Some ninety paces away.  
  Ninety paces too far.  
  Iris held her head up and her handkerchief over her nose, as the smell of fish threatened to make her bring up what little she could swallow, that morning. And on her way to the carriage, she did her best to pretend she didn't hear what the people with business on the docks had to say about her.  
  "There goes that hussy..."  
  "Look at her, putting on airs."  
  "...pretending she has any virtue at all..."  
  "...thinks she's better than us."  
  "Tramp."  
  "Harlot."  
  "Paddy whore."  
  "Slattern."  
  _They will not make me cry. They'll never make me cry!_ She told herself in defiance of the stinging sensation in her eyes.  
  Ahead of her, and closing fast, Red Regret opened the door to the coach and lowered the step. Her mechanical, replacement arm held the door. She wore all her shirts without sleeves for it, since she considered the new limb to be a badge of honour. And she was tough enough to punch out any man with either arm, should he say anything uncouth about the remainder of her anatomy. And right at this moment, it looked like Red Regret was figuring out which arm to use on the crowd of commentators behind Iris.  
  "Don't you mind 'em m'm," said Red Regret as she handed Iris into the interior. "Any fool can see he's as mad in love with you as you are of him. The rest is just formalities, nohow."  
  Iris still closed the windows and drew the curtains and, as the coach rode through the streets, tried to pretend that the sound of soft missiles hitting the coach was a very heavy rain.  
  Even if she found a church that would welcome her, she would not confess to her time with beloved Peter as a sin. She couldn't bear to think of it as sinful. Being with him in that manner had been the one time in her life that felt correct. Natural. Right.  
  She should know her place.  
  She should come to her senses.  
  She should do the right thing.  
  But at that moment, she had no clue as to what that was.  
  
  Cookie Madelaine listened to Iris the housekeeper charge from the coach to the nearest water closet. Where she peed and retched for twenty minutes.  
  Discrete though that little scrap was, there would be no hiding her shame for much longer. Cookie made up her mind to talk to her. Woman to woman.  
  End the nonsense, now. Before it got too far.  
  Any fool could see how mad in love she was for the master, and no mistake. And it didn't take much in the way of knowledge to recognise that the master felt exactly the same for her. But that didn't make it right. Neither did it make right the little bastard poor Iris had in her belly.  
  She bustled down to the herb racks and picked the things Iris needed. Made the bitter brew to save what remained of her good reputation.  
  All the public knew about was the kiss. And the nursing. They didn't need to know about the rest of the little ballet.  
  Cookie set the tea a-brewing and shooed the menfolk into the garden to supervise the trees. And the maids to freshening all the bedrooms whether they needed it or not.  
  This was womans trouble. And it had to be dealt with between women.  
  Cookie waited for her to finish freshening up and put on her most motherly smile. "There you are, Miss Iris. You look upset. You miss 'em already, don't you?"  
  A shaky nod. A tremble of the lower lip. She was still struggling not to cry.  
  "Well, as it happens, I have the cure for all that ails you in the kitchen. We can have a nice little talk, just you and I."  
  "Bless you," Miss Iris quavered. "I've been missing feminine companionship..."  
  All Cookie had to do was hold her shoulders for the poor woman to break down and cry. She was used to being tough in the face of hostility, given all the rumours flying around about her. What she was un-used to was a gentle hand and a kind heart.  
  Cookie sat her down and wrapped her in a cloak and gave her some fresh bread and butter.  
  At least she could keep that down.  
  Then she slid her a cup of the tea.  
  "You just drink that right down," she soothed. "It'll make most of your trouble disappear."  
  Sniff. "This smells like pennyroyal."  
  "Aye. It'll get rid of that little bastard, right quick."  
  Miss Iris stared at the cup and its contents. Tears streamed down her face. Her hands trembled. Her breath shuddered in and out.  
  Finally, her voice came out in a quavering whisper. "It is not my decision alone," she managed.  
  "You're mad," murmured Cookie. "He already took what he wanted. He's not going to be a 'Pappy' to your bastard. You'll be lucky to be thrown into the street when he finds out. It ain't proper."  
  "...neither is most of this house, Mrs Madelaine..." _And neither is the good Colonel, forgive me for thinking it._  
  Cookie lunged for her, cup in hand. "Drink the damn tea! For God's sake, it's for your own good!"  
  
To Be Continued...


End file.
